


Sweetheart there's a fire in your bones (and the devil in your heart)

by evanlinge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Issues, Post-Hell, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:50:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanlinge/pseuds/evanlinge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a week since Dean clawed his way out of his own coffin, and he tells Sam that he doesn't remember Hell. It's been a week, and Dean doesn't tell Sam what he does remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetheart there's a fire in your bones (and the devil in your heart)

_**Sweetheart, there's a fire in your bones (and the devil in your heart)** _

__

* * *

 

 

Dean's voice is strange for the first few days afterwards; raw and soft like his vocal cords are still learning how to produce the correct sounds. His skin is hypersensitive, and he can't keep down any kind of meat for a week. Sam says that its part of his body adjusting; him settling back into his own skin. They carefully skirt around the fact that it isn't really his own skin. Just a brand-new, angel-made meatsuit for Dean to slip into once they'd dragged him back to life _(to Sam)_.

 

Sam asks what Dean remembers from Hell, _-nothing Sam, no, don't look at me like that, don't you think I'd tell you if I remembered-_ , but doesn't ask _who_ Dean remembers from his time in the Pit.

Alistair, is the shadow just beyond Dean's field of vision. His, oily, polished, voice rattles in Dean's bones, sliding deep behind his ribs, intimate in a way that is hardly possible topside. Dean remembers, _-nothing Sam, no, don't look at-_

He remembers Alistair, crooning low and pleased, _just like that, Dean-o, just there-_ , how Alistair carved into the meat of him, stripped him open, rearranging him and putting him back together just a little _different_ , just a little _wrong-_

 

 

In the Pit, it was never silent. The noise was endless: screeching, snarling, wailing, howls of agony and hysterical laughter, until they all blended together into a cacophony of bright, white, noise. When Dean comes back, his sense of sound is off, the quiet is deafening, like the crackle of static on a disconnected radio.

He listens to Sam when he talks, listens with a focus that must be unnerving because Sam shifts his gaze to the dresser, or the wall; really, anywhere but Dean. Dean runs his hands and fingers over everything, taking in texture and the sting of hypersensitivity, _in Hell he only felt what Alistair wanted him to feel_ , and tries to ignore that Sam is different. More confident, broader shoulders, head held higher, as if he'd found himself in the time that Dean had been gone.

 

Castiel, _raised you from perdition, can put you back again_ , Dean's saviour, he supposes, warns him, warns Dean and in turn Dean warns Sam, and closes his ears against the murmur of Alistair's voice.

 

 _What are you doing up here, Dean-o,_ Alistair croons, like he's soothing a frightened child. Like he called Dean, _sweetheart,_ _my_ _favourite,_ _darling_ _, kiddo,_ when he tore into Dean's soul over and over. He makes his gaze skim over Alistair in the mirror because he _can't(won't) see him-_

 

* * *

 

“Hey Dean, what was it like?” Sam asks, hesitantly, like he isn't sure he really wants to know the answer.

 

“What, Hell?” Dean says, glancing up. “I don't know. I-I must have blacked it out.” He looks Sam straight in the eye, earnest and guileless. “I don't remember a damn thing.”

“Thank God for that,” Sam says at last.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

 

* * *

 

 

_I hear your voice,_

 

_and cannot rest,_

 

_for an endless lifetime,_

 

_you kept my soul,_

 

_close to your chest._


End file.
